


bite to break the skin

by silver_atalanta



Category: Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 21:41:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5514332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver_atalanta/pseuds/silver_atalanta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's at night when the monsters come out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bite to break the skin

Bite to break the skin

\---

His apartment is dark still when he blinks awake, halfway between a dreaming state and a waking state.

For awhile he lies there tangled in his sheets staring up at his white cracked ceiling, feeling sweat cool on his body and his muscles gradually start to relax. Somewhere the air clicks on and he shivers, trying and failing to forget the dream that had been more like a nightmare.

The dream about that man falling down, down, down, all heat and red creature eyes— No, no, he’d told himself that he wouldn’t think about him at least not when he’s awake and his is remembering him and feeling that familiar rage burning under his skin like lava—

With a growl Chris Redfield rolls over on his side and closes his eyes, intent to try to find more sleep before his alarm inevitably goes off. The time on the clock, blood red letters, tell him that it is early morning, 4:04 to be precise so he has four more hours to attempt to pursue sleep. And this time actual sleep and not nightmares and memories that will leave him sweating and thrashing and screaming silently in his throat.

He lies there for minutes that stretch on and on and on, his eyelids pulled almost painfully shut against his eyes. Sleep, he tells himself even though he is wide awake and too hot, the covers confining around him. Please just sleep. But it is a lost cause and he knows it, eyes opening to see the clock now reads 4:49. With a heavy sigh he rolls out of bed and walks to his bathroom, relieving himself before rubbing cold water on his face in a half ass attempt to cool down. He really needed to talk to the landlady about the goddamn air in this place because it is suffocating.

He is heading back to his bed to try and fail at getting more sleep when he sees it—two red eyes glaring at him across the room. Eyes that he knows, eyes that he thought were dead, eyes that could only belong to—

He is defenseless and he is acutely aware of it and yet he still tries to run into the next room where his gun holster is sitting innocently on the coffee table. He doesn’t even make it to the door before there is a low familiar chuckle and a dark blur and pale skin in front of him, tackling him down to the hard unforgiving ground. Chris fights even though he knows after so many experiences that it is really futile, lashing out with hands and legs and teeth until he is panting for breath and his limbs are being easily held down in a punishing grip, a fist that is inhumanly strong snapping out to hit him in the jaw until he tastes blood and there is a dull ringing in his ears and he is dazed, weakened.

Through pain filled and eyes hazed over with rage and fear Chris stares up into the familiar handsome face of his tormentor, the face that has haunted his dreams and hasn’t left him alone for years now, back to haunt him more and more.

“No,” Chris spits out, a single word full of blood. “No.” The figure above him, dressed in that all black ensemble he’d been in when he’d supposedly died chuckles low and condescending again and a pale hand forged of granite moves to grip at Chris’s neck, so delicate in that grip. “I take it you missed me then?” the accented voice sneers and in the twilight darkness of the room Chris sees thin lips pull back in a smile that is all teeth. “Judging from your reaction, Christopher, I think you did.”

“You’re supposed to be dead,” Chris accuses and tries to aim another desperate punch and Wesker doesn’t even flinch, just captures his wrist and his fist and squeezes until it aches and the bones groan. Chris does not cry out or flinch; he will not show this creature any weakness, not anymore, not now. Wesker is surprisingly without his sunglasses and his eyes are like that of a demon’s, the color of blood as they stare down at Chris. “But I’m not dead now am I Chris?” Wesker says, all smugness and arrogance as always.

But still this…this has to be a dream, right? “You fell in a volcano!”

“Well yes that did happen but you’ve forgotten who you’re dealing with. Did you really think anything could destroy me? A god?”

“You are not a fucking god!” Chris snarls out. “You’re just a goddamn abomination!”

Wesker presses down on his wrist until the bones feel like they are going to snap and Chris lets out an involuntary cry of pain. “Well I must say I’m rather delighted to see that none of that spirit I so admire has diminished much Chris. And here I’d thought you’d be lost without me!”

“I was happy without you!” Chris bites out rebelliously even though he knows in the deepest darkest part of him that it is nothing but a lie. From the way Wesker’s self righteous smile widens he can tell that Wesker knows that too. But still Chris forges on, unwilling to admit what is obvious in his heart—that sad, broken little thing—with Wesker bearing down on him. “I just wanted you to die finally so I could move on with my life! You deserve to be dead you fucking bastard!”

“That may be true,” Wesker admits with a small hum of agreement. “But without me what purpose does Chris Redfield have? Since my ‘death’ as you fools believed it was, what have you done Chris? Have you even left this apartment to go anywhere but the bar?”

“Shut the fuck up! You don’t know anything—“

“Ah but I do know you Christopher; we were on the same team once, after all. You looked up to me, didn’t you? Your unfailing captain…I thought you even had a little crush on me then which was simply adorable in a sad pathetic way.”

“I never liked you!” Chris hisses, spitting blood up at that pale smirking face. As expected it earns him a backhand across the face, leaving his cheek throbbing and his teeth aching. “Don’t lie to me Chris,” Wesker hisses out, leaning uncomfortably close to Chris’s face, body spreading out on top of Chris until the man is pinned by the virus carrier’s humanoid form. Completely at his mercy as always goddamnit as always…

“You’re not my captain,” Chris spits back with all his foolish defiance, eyes flashing wildly and muscles still tense even though it is clearly a losing battle; it has always been a losing battle between them. “Even if I did feel something for you it was a long time ago! You were never even my captain to begin with anyway, working for Umbrella—“

“My how bitter you still are about that,” Wesker muses; pressing into Chris’s wrist again in a dangerous way, a silent warning that Chris refuses to yield to. “Since it’s been so long ago, as you’ve said, I thought you would be over that at least a little. I’ve done worse offenses than simply betraying you Chris, although you’ve always been a special case…” Chris doesn’t even really want to know that the monster means by that. “Of course none of this has been about me! It’s been about saving the fucking world from your madness—“

“Has it really?” Wesker demands and he leans down until his breath, unnaturally hot like lava, brushes against Chris’s angry face in a small caress. “Has it really been about the world Chris? Or has it been about me? Getting your ‘revenge’, chasing me for place to place even though you know—you know even now—that you have no hope of stopping me.” “I threw your ass into a volcano!” Chris exclaims and sweat clings to his skin at Wesker’s proximity but more than that, much more than that, because of Wesker’s words. “I didn’t expect you to survive a fucking volcano Wesker!”

“Didn’t you? Tell me Chris, why did you leave your front door unlocked? Why is your window open? Have you been perhaps waiting for me?”

“That’s fucking ridiculous!” Chris snaps out though the words sound strained even to his own ears, too rehearsed and stilted. “The window’s opened because it’s boiling in this place and why the fuck would I wait for you? I hate you!”

“Ah and I hate you too Chris,” Wesker purrs at him and he is too close, his bloody eyes glowing unnaturally down at Chris as he leans in closer and closer and Chris can smell him, all brimstone and leather and spice. When Wesker says it like that, a whispered confession into his ear, it seems like it’s more than it seems, it seems like it isn’t just a confession of mutual hate, no, but rather a mutual confession of—

“Why did you come here?” Chris demands and the grip around his wrists is loosens slightly and Wesker is breathing too close to him, pale skin and blonde hair and those eyes like fire lighting Chris up. “Just to torture me? Kill me?”

“Hmm I could do that…” And like clockwork a familiar hand reaches up and wraps around Chris’s throat, slim seemingly delicate fingers crushing the brunette’s windpipe until he can’t breathe. Desperately Chris reaches up and claws at those deadly hands as stars dance in his vision and his chest heaves, mouth falling open in silent pleas for breath. Darkness is starting to prickle at the edges of his vision and still all he sees is red burning eyes staring down at him, getting closer and closer and closer and closer until all Chris can see is those eyes, glaring at him and destroying him. Still he does not close his eyes, can’t look away—

He is seconds away from passing out when the pressure on his windpipe lets up and his body jerks as his lungs greedily suck in as much air as they can. His eyes close for just a second as his body tries to regain its lost breath when it is stolen from him again, this time by a pair of rough burning lips. Chris’s eyes shoot open and a tongue is in his mouth and red is all he can see inches from him and everything is too hot, an inferno and his lethargic brain is slowly catching up— Wesker is kissing him— “I will destroy you,” Wesker says into his mouth and Chris knows that he should be fighting him, biting his tongue and cursing him.

Wesker doesn’t have the right to touch him like this; he shouldn’t be touching him like this to begin with, and yet— And yet— He doesn’t try to fight him; he doesn’t even attempt to. He is frozen and pinned and Wesker’s taste—cigarettes and metal and salt—bursting in his mouth and spreading throughout his body like a poison, like a virus, fucking with his mind and of course fucking with his heart.

Wesker’s body is a long hot line against him, pushing against him and his tongue is punishing and his teeth are merciless as he takes and takes and takes from Chris. It is only fair then, Chris thinks in wildness and sharp edged excitement-fear that he takes back, isn’t it? So he kisses Wesker, responds to him, surging up into that salty mouth that for years and years and years has taunted him and haunted him and feels the too sharp teeth and the deadly tongue dance with his own. His heart is racing in his ears and Wesker’s hands are not holding him down anymore but trailing down his body, strong hands that have crafted the deaths of many catching on his sensitive skin and making him almost deliriously glad that he never wore a sleep shirt.

“Look at you, so desperate for it,” that accented voice hisses into the skin of his neck as Wesker’s mouth tears away and down, inhuman teeth digging into the flesh of Chris’s neck until the man—the victim—squirms and cries out. Wesker bites to break the skin and Chris lets out a hoarse cry at the pain, a wounded sound of an animal from his throat, and turns his head farther into that cruel touch.

He is panting under Wesker, under his lips and his hands that are dismantling him and it is wrong, so wrong and he should be fighting but he is so fucking tired of fighting. He is tired of fighting and he is tired of trying to pretend that he is happy when here, now, with Wesker’s lips finding his own again, he is impossibly and irrevocably more alive than he has been in years. Not since his S.T.A.R.S days when he had looked into sunglass covered eyes and—

“That’s it Chris,” Wesker hisses sweetly in his ear, a coo from a snake. “Let me in; let it all go, pet. Just let it all go, I’ve got you…” A hand, smooth and deadly, slides into his pajama bottoms to clutch him and Chris’s moan of surprise and horror and excitement is swallowed by the creature’s greedy mouth, Wesker gripping him in an almost punishing grip as he slides his hand with a friction that makes Chris unable to stop screaming.

“This is where you belong, my pet,” Wesker tells him, gently and almost soothingly as with his other hand—the one not taking apart Chris down below—he grabs hold of Chris’s wrist again and makes more bruises bloom on the human’s delicate skin. Chris writhes into that touch as well, pain and pleasure becoming one for him over the years and his eyes hazy and wide like deer’s as he looks straight up at Wesker, looks into the red, red eyes.

“Wesker,” Chris gasps out with the rattling sound of a dying man and the hand is tighter on his manhood, goes faster and faster. Above him Wesker bears his pearly white teeth in a wolf’s grin and says his name, drawled out and achingly and chillingly familiar, and that is what has Chris spiraling over the edge in hate and in rapture, screaming Wesker’s name with hate and adoration in perfect measure. Wesker swallows that scream in a kiss that almost seems to burn, all teeth and growls and groans as Wesker uses his mouth until it is sore and bruised and he is boneless, floating and almost insensate.

“We’re not done, Chris,” Wesker says into his ear, biting down until more blood is drawn, until it is painful and Chris flinches away from it. But he doesn’t flinch away from Wesker, even as he feels his pajama pants being ripped from his body, leaving him naked and vulnerable to those hungry crimson eyes. Still he cannot raise any token protest, his tongue still tasting of the electricity and salt that is Albert Wesker and heart beating—racing—in the thin skin of his chest.

“I am dreaming,” he whispers mostly to himself as Wesker’s fingers enter him, a slight burn like a small wound, like a scrape or a bruise or a scream. “I have to be dreaming.” “No,” Wesker tells him with that same wolf-like smile, releasing his wrist to touch the cheek he had hit earlier almost reverently, moonlight fingers dragging over the bruised skin. “This is real, Chris, and you will remember it.” The fingers are twisting and curling and pleasure is taking Chris’s mind again, the mind that has been half lost for years now ever since he looked into the same demon eyes above him now.

“And if I don’t remember it?” he manages to choke out just to annoy Wesker, to challenge him like he knows he is meant to always do. Wesker’s smile turns sharp like a blade and his eyes almost seem to boil. “Then I’ll just have to be back to remind you then, won’t I pet?” The fingers are gone and something larger presses against him, hot and hard and Chris pants for breath, for salvation and mercy in the hands of this demon. “Remind you who exactly you belong to.” Wesker kisses him and swallows all he has to offer as he pushes inside of him in one rough decisive stroke, not giving Chris time to adjust before he is moving over and over again, surging and pounding into Chris.

At first it is all pain and Chris grits his teeth and deals with it, using his bruised arms and wrists to hoist himself up until the angle changes and he can grab onto Wesker’s shoulders, still clad in that black, black material that feels like silk beneath his slippery fingers. Then everything bursts into colors, into passion and pleasure and Chris almost starts crying from it, falling into Wesker’s unyielding body and feeling strong and long arms coil around him like snakes and pull him closer and closer until he doesn’t know where he begins and Wesker ends.

He can feel Wesker’s breath now, almost surreal on his temple and his neck as the blonde head bows into him and he can hear, through the roaring in his ears and his own gasps of pleasure, Wesker saying something like a chant, something that sounds vaguely like his own name. It doesn’t take long, with the friction he has against Wesker’s dark shirt, for him to lose himself again, sobbing and gasping wetly as he lets go for the second time, feeling it leave him almost painfully now like a punch to the gut.

His release spurns on Wesker’s own and those teeth sink down into his neck as Wesker erupts inside of him with a growl that sounds almost inhuman, like the groaning of a wild beast instead of a man. Chris is left still gasping for breath, dizziness and exhaustion and the weight of so many emotions pressing in on him until his vision just wants to darken. Wesker is still inside of him growing soft now and his arms are still constraining in ways that should feel constricting but don’t, not to Chris.

“This is how you should always be, Chris,” Wesker whispers to him, the bitten up skin of his neck and the bruises from Wesker’s hands and fingers. “You hate me, but this is how we should always be. You’re finally there, pet. You’re finally mine.” The words enter one ear and leave out the other but unbeknownst of Chris, exhausted, world-weary Chris, they settle somewhere deep inside him, in a place left open and gaping for so long that it’s barely felt when it is filled.

Later, alone and weeks or years from now, when Wesker is maybe dead or maybe alive, Chris will see this thing inside of him, planted by a demon with red eyes and a charming smile and it will make him cry and scream and yes, it will destroy him. But it will begin him too. For now he lets Wesker’s fingers slip back around his neck, one by one, the same hands that had just given him pleasure he hasn’t known for so long putting him back to sleep, a sleep that steals his breath. In the morning he will wake up bite marked and loathing himself but for now he leans into that punishing touch and he closes his eyes, feels lips one last time on his.

Wesker tastes like smoke now, burning. “You are my destruction too, Chris. I’ll be back for you, to fuck you or kill you… Well, that’s anyone’s guess isn’t it, pet?”

\-------

Why did I write this. I played the game again and I just... the trash came and wouldn't let go :0

Well, hope you enjoyed anyway and thanks for reading! :))

 

 


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